He tried to think of some experience to match this, but he could not; he asked her if she did not think that you always felt a little gloomy after you had been laughing a great deal. She said yes; after that first night when they laughed so, she felt so depressed that she was sure she was going to have bad news from Madeline. Then she said she had received a letter from Madeline that morning, and she and Mr. Berry had both wished her to give him their regards if she ever saw him. This, when she had said it, seemed a very good joke too; and they laughed at it a little consciously, till he boldly bade her tell them he came so very seldom that she did not know when she could deliver their message. She answered that she was afraid Madeline would not believe that; and then it came out that he had never replied to Berry's letter. She said, “Oh! Is that the way you treat your correspondents?” and he was ashamed to confess that he had not forgiven Berry. “I will write to him to-night, if you say so,” he answered hardily. “Oh, you must do what you think best,” she said, lightly refusing the responsibility. “Whatever you say will be best,” he said, with a sudden, passionate fervour that surprised himself. She tried to escape from it. “Am I so infallible as that?” “You are for me!” he retorted. A silence followed, which she endeavoured to break, but she sat still across the little table from him where the shaded lamp spread its glow, leaving the rest of the room, with its red curtains and its sketches pinned about, in a warm, luxurious shadow. Her eyes fell, and she did not speak. “It must sound very strange to you, I know,” he went on; “and it's strange to me, too; but it seems to me that there isn't anything I've done without my thinking whether you would like me to do it.” She rose involuntarily. “You make me ashamed to think that you're so much mistaken about me! I know how we all influence each other--I know I always try to be what I think people expect me to be--I can't be myself--I know what you mean; but you--you must be yourself, and not let--” She stopped in her wandering speech, in strange agitation, and he rose too. “I hope you're not offended with me!” “Offended? Why? Why do you--go so soon?” “I thought you were going,” he answered stupidly. “Why, I'm at _home!_” They looked at each other, and then they broke into a happy laugh. “Sit down again! I don't know what I got up for. It must have been to make some tea. Did you know Madeline had bequeathed me her tea-kettle--the one we had at the St. Albans?” She bustled about, and lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle. “Blow out that match!” he cried. “You'll set your dress on fire!” He caught her hand, which she was holding with the lighted match in it at her side, after the manner of women with lighted matches, and blew it out himself. “Oh, thank you!” she said indifferently. “Can you take it without milk?” “Yes, I like it so.”